July 24th
by Libek
Summary: Steve's 28th birthday both does and doesn't quite go as planned, thanks to his new friends in the 21st century. Angst, fluff, humor, and friendship; all the Avengers are in attendance. Contains Tony/Pepper.


Ever since awakening in May, 2011, Steve Rogers had kept very careful track of time. He had reminded himself, each and every day, that it was Monday; then Tuesday, then Wednesday. He had tried not to think about the ten days and sixty-six years he was missing, what day it _should_ have been. To focus on what day - and what year - it was now.

And on this particular Wednesday, it wasn't exactly that he went down to the forty-seventh floor kitchen without realizing that it was July 4th, 2012. In fact, mere moments before, Steve had actually been wondering when the fireworks would start and whether he'd have a good view of them from his suite in the tower.

It was just that those were background thoughts, vague and distant and without any other implications.

Because as often as he reminded himself that it was 2012, and July, and Wednesday, there was still a part of Steve Rogers that knew, deep down to his bones, that it wouldn't _really_ be his birthday for another week and a half. And because maybe, even if he _had_ made the connection - even if what the calendar told him was the 4th of July _had_ felt like his birthday - Steve still wouldn't have expected anyone in 2012 to know. Or remember. Or...

Well. They were superheroes, after all. They led busy, complicated lives. Who could have reasonably expected such important people to drop everything for a celebration of what wasn't even _really_ the day one of them had been born?

"Happy birthday," Pepper Potts said as he stepped into the kitchen, and Steve had to admit that maybe he should've given up on reasonable expectations by now.

"Um," he said. "I'm sorry?"

Miss Potts gave him a small, bemused smile and he realized she had a platter in her hands. A platter with a cake on it. A cake with his name on it.

"I said, happy birthday."

His mouth was hanging open, he knew. He tried to fix it, and wound up saying, "Um," again.

"You're welcome," Miss Potts said, her lips curving up higher. "It's chocolate. You don't mind chocolate, do you?"

Steve fumbled. "I - no," he said, mortified. "I mean, thank you. I mean... wow." He rubbed a hand through his hair, fingers digging into his scalp, and couldn't a short stuttering laugh. "Chocolate is fine. Chocolate is great. You didn't have to do this," he added.

_You don't mind chocolate, do you?_

He snickered again, brought a hand up to his face to smother it. "I'm sorry. It's not funny. This was - really nice of you."

"You don't have to be polite," Miss Potts told him, her smile ever more wry. She set the cake back down on the counter. "I didn't even make it. If you don't want any, or you're allergic, I promise I won't be offended."

"No. No! Really." Steve pursed his lips. "I like chocolate. I mean, I think I like chocolate. I haven't had it in - years."

He'd learned to always put things in those terms. _In years_ was accurate, but nonspecific. Safe. If he said _in years_, neither of them had to think about how many years it had really been since the last one he remembered.

Or, at least, that was how it was supposed to go. It never quite worked for him, but that was okay.

Miss Potts seemed to accept that, though her eyes were a little more intent on his face than he liked. Then her expression cleared. "Because of the rationing," she said.

For some reason, Steve found his eyes darting to the cake, the elegant frosted swirls that spelled his name, but he was quick to nod. "Not something I have to worry about here, I know," he said, cracking a self-deprecating smile for her.

He'd learned to do that, too. Because even when people asked, they didn't usually want to know. It was a game, Steve had learned. A game called _How Much Do I Still Remember From My High School History Class?_ And his memories were the encyclopedia they used to check their answers.

"No," Miss Potts agreed, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Especially not _here_. Tony can and will replace anything you want to eat, I promise."

That made it harder to keep smiling, but Steve did his best.

Because it was Wednesday, July 4th, 2012, and America had won that war. Had won, and lost, several wars since. Because Tony Stark could even take some of the credit for the most recent war they'd won - or all of it, the way he did whenever the topic came up.

Because there was no need to ration anything anymore, because that wasn't how America went to war anymore, and because Stark was as entitled as any other American citizen to as much sugar as he wanted.

And if that rankled with Steve - on multiple levels - well, Miss Potts was _not_ the one to blame.

So he said, "I know. Don't worry. I'll... remember."

This time, she looked _decidedly_ unconvinced, crossing her arms over her chest. "Mm-_hmm_." But after a moment she turned away, opening a nearby drawer, and - withdrawing a large knife from it.

Steve didn't mean to stare, but the look on his face must have been _something_ because her lips quirked up when she noticed.

"-Death _would_ be a fitting punishment for not being impressed with my boyfriend," she agreed, "but I was going to use it to cut the cake."

"Oh." He could feel the heat in his face. "Right. Yeah. The... obvious thing. Of course." Then he actually thought about that. He had been too distracted before to notice, and he would never have cared, but the cake _was_ a bit small. "Is that - just for the two of us?"

Miss Potts kept her back to him. "Unless you don't want to share any of it with me."

"That's- No," Steve told her, feeling the heat crawl up the back of his neck. His ears were probably turning red. "That isn't what I meant at all! You can have- I mean. You bought it, if you wanted to have _all_ of it, that would be..."

She was laughing now. He gave up.

"Please," he said. "Have as much as you want. And thank you, again."

"I think just the one slice will be fine," she replied, mock-seriously, and when she turned to face him again he saw that she had two small plates in her hands.

Both with cake on them.

She had never even hesitated.

Suddenly, it almost made sense that she and Stark would be... whatever they called it these days.

"But yes," Miss Potts said, carving off a bite of cake with her fork. "This is just for the two of us. Maria called about an hour ago, and everyone else is at a meeting. Don't worry," she added, before he could so much as open his mouth. "It's nothing vital. They'll all be back in time for the party."

Most of Steve's attention had been on nodding and forcing himself to relax - to accept that somewhere, at that very moment, the other Avengers were having a meeting with Maria Hill and possibly the Director without him - but now he was spluttering.

"Party?" he demanded, and, wow, he hadn't even known his voice could go that high. "What party?"

Miss Potts smiled - no, it was really more of a grin. "There are a lot of things Tony isn't very good at," she admitted. "Remembering birthdays without help, for example. His own included. But parties aren't one of them. Well? Do you like it?"

Steve stared at her for a long moment. Then he picked up his fork and took a bite of the cake.

It was delicious. Startlingly so, actually. Sweet and rich and - _oh_, his dim memories of chocolate as a boy had nothing on _this_.

He couldn't actually bring himself to speak, because speaking would have meant swallowing and then the taste wouldn't have been as thick on his tongue, but Miss Potts seemed to understand.

"Good," she said, still grinning. "So, we'll get started around seven. You should wear something nice."

Steve hesitated, then forced himself to swallow. "Miss Potts," he said, "I don't..."

"Pepper," she corrected him. "And I know. That's why I'm going to help you. We can go shopping, if we need to."

"That isn't what I meant. Miss Potts- Pepper." Steve _knew_ his ears were turning red this time. "I've seen Stark's parties on TV, and I just don't..."

"They'll have another cake," she said. "Actually, they'll have four cakes. We weren't sure what you'd like, so Tony got an assortment."

And that, embarrassingly enough, was all it took.

.

A few hours later, Steve Rogers wasn't sure he ever wanted to see another cake again.

It probably had something to do with the fact that he had been determined to try all of the different kinds Stark had bought. And it definitely had something to do with the fact that _four_ had, apparently without Miss Potts's permission, turned into _ten_.

"Well," Dr. Banner said, not without sympathy, "it's a good thing you metabolize sugar so well. Otherwise, you might be going into cardiac arrest right now."

"I've never seen anything like it," Stark said, entirely without sympathy. "You ate the coconut cream. You ate the coconut cream _by yourself_."

"_Tony_."

"Commencing killjoy in three, two, one..."

Miss Potts just shot him a look. Wisely, and unusually, Stark shut up.

"I think I'm gonna be okay," Steve told them. No one seemed to hear him, but the carpet had undoubtedly muffled his words somewhat.

"Someone should get him water," Barton said. "And maybe a little baggie to throw up in."

"Are we certain the cakes were not poisoned?" Thor, of course. "The Captain of America has many enemies."

"We're certain," Romanoff promised him, and Miss Potts added, "We use that bakery all the time."

Steve let his eyes shut. The floor of Stark's penthouse was surprisingly comfortable. Some kind of thick, expensive carpet. He liked it in spite of himself.

The party hadn't, actually, been too bad. It had certainly been a _Tony Stark Party_ - supermodels, important political figures, and business partners - and there were tacky flag decorations everywhere. Stark himself had donned an incredibly ugly red-white-and-blue suit with stars that, for some reason, glowed in the dark.

But, in spite of all of that, the party had almost been...

Sort of nice.

Alongside the supermodels, Stark had - of course - invited the other Avengers. There had even been SHIELD agents in the mix for a while, all of them varying degrees of completely uncomfortable, before some minor new development had called them away. Something about a spider in Manhattan? Well, Steve couldn't really remember the details, but one thing he knew he would _never_ forget was the strange sight of Director Fury growling into his cell phone, flanked on either side by grave men in crisp black suits, all three of them still wearing star-spangled party hats as they left.

"He's having some kind of a seizure," Romanoff's voice said abruptly. "Turn him over."

"No," Dr. Banner's voice argued. "No, no, I think he's - I think he's just laughing. Steve? Are you all right?"

Steve smiled faintly. "I think I just need to lie down for a while," he told them. "It's been a really, really long time since I last had chocolate."

There was a pause above him, before Banner said, "Right, you grew up in the Great Depression. And then, the war..."

He should have nodded. He should have nodded, and smiled, and changed the subject. But the nausea was still there, twisting his stomach into knots, and nodding would have only made it worse.

And...

Again, he found himself thinking of his name, spelled out in frosted swirls on Miss Potts's small chocolate cake - and on each and every cake that day. He found himself thinking of all the people who had wished him a happy birthday. Of the banner that still hung from the ceiling above them and, in obnoxiously huge, unnecessarily sparkly letters, proclaimed: _Happy 92nd Birthday, Captain America!_

And instead, Steve opened his eyes and said, "Actually, not really. I could have had chocolate, as long as I didn't care about it tasting sweet. Back then, sugar was the hardest thing to get a hold of. And... since I couldn't help the war any other way, I didn't try. Let families with kids have the sugar, and the meat, and the dairy. I'd just do without."

There was another pause, longer this time.

Stark said, "Maybe they _were_ poisoned. Maybe our bakery is cool with Iron Man, but really _hates_ Captain America. It could happen."

"Nobody hates Captain America," Miss Potts said, scowling at him. "You would know that, if you ever went to any of our meetings with overseas businessmen. Or any of our meetings at all."

For a fraction of a second, Steve thought that would be the end of it. Next, one of them would change the subject, and then they would all move on, without anyone even trying to make a game of it.

Then Dr. Banner knelt down beside him, his gaze thoughtful, and said, "My mother had all these recipes that didn't use sugar. She'd use juice, and I would whine that it didn't taste the same." His smile twitched, trembled, smoothed out. "The only thing I ever liked was her brownies. She made them with apple juice, and I know it sounds weird, but..."

He let the sentence trail away, but then Barton picked it up, saying, "I have an uncle who still keeps all these cans in his basement. Jars, too. All this food, and lots of other things, too. He never throws anything out. Ever. What he can't use, he gives away."

Slowly, the others sat down around him on the floor: Romanoff crosslegged, Barton crouching beside her, Stark sprawled out to take up as much room as he could. Miss Potts was the last to settle, and she gave Steve a lingering look as she did so.

Steve told them more about the ration books, how even children had had them, and when they still seemed interested he told them what he'd heard about gas rationing. He told them everything he could, and they listened, adding in things here and there.

They wound up missing the fireworks that year, but no one seemed to notice.

It was Wednesday, and it was July 4th, and it was 2012 - but it was also Monday, June 24th, 1946. They were in America, but they were also in Russia; or, when Thor took his turn, Asgard.

And maybe there was nothing so very wrong with that, after all.


End file.
